Battle Fatigue
by poestheblackcat
Summary: Lindsey's brother has been different since he came back from the war. Lindsey, Eliot with PTSD. Very pre-series for both shows. "McDonald Boys" verse, but may stand alone.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Lindsey's brother has been different since he came back from the war. Lindsey, Eliot with PTSD. Very pre-series for both shows. "McDonald Boys" verse, but may stand alone.

Warning: If you're looking for cute and fluffy hurt/comfort, turn back now. **This is a lot darker and angstier than my usual "McDonald Boys" fare.** It _does_ have hurt/comfort though…and okay, it's very fluffy at the end. But super-angsty in the beginning and middle. So warning…I warned you. I could say more, but that would spoil the story.

Personal quibbles: this probably isn't a realistic portrayal of PTSD - just what I've gathered from the internet and thought up out of my own head. But I did try…And I know, I know, Lindsey is too wimpy and whiny. I just couldn't stop him from crying. *shrug* But then again, give him a break because he's like nineteen, and dude, _I_ would cry like this in his situation, and I'm a couple of years past that age. Anyway, that's my explanation for the way he acts.

* * *

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Battle Fatigue**

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Chapter One**

Eliot has been different since he came back from the war. Everyone can tell, Uncle Randy and the Martins, Willie and his wife Tina and his daughter Aimee, who's Eliot's on-again off-again girlfriend. Lindsey. They can all tell that he's different, but everyone seems to want to skirt around the issue because he's fine, he's just fine (or so he says).

"Boy's come back a man," Randy rumbles around the mouth of his beer bottle, the cigarette in his other hand spiraling smoke upwards as he speaks. "Ain't a kid no more."

Willie merely frowns, sighs, and lets Eliot work off the excess anger and bouts of restless energy interspersed with fits of ennui that he's come home with on breaking a horse in.

Tina tuts and fusses and asks him to help her make cookies for the church bake sale to keep his mind off of whatever's worrying him. Helping others is good for the soul, she says. (Though no one says a word when Eliot refuses point blank to set foot inside of that church.)

Aimee…well, Lindsey's pretty sure he doesn't want to know what Aimee does with Eliot, but he does see that there are a lot of gentle words and soft touches that Eliot either completely ignores or merely shrugs off.

"He's different," she tells Lindsey, tears glistening in her eyes, "It almost scares me."

Lindsey can understand that. His brother's home, but not really.

Eliot startles easily and reacts violently, doesn't sleep most nights, and when he does, he wakes up thrashing and screaming, only to shove Lindsey roughly away when he scrambles over from the next bed to comfort him, hold him, hell,_ anything_ to stop his twin's pain. And then there are the long stretches of time when Eliot just sits there, hands limp in his lap, staring off into the distance with empty eyes.

"Thousand-yard stare," Uncle Randy calls it, adding on darkly, "Whatever it is he's seein', you don't wanna see fer yerself."

Except Lindsey does. He wants to know what the hell is going on inside of his twin's head. He wants to know how he can make it better, how he can fix it so that he can have his brother back.

For the thousandth time, he wonders why Eliot had to go off to friggin' _Somalia_ in the first place. Why couldn't he have been satisfied with going to college and becoming somebody, like Lindsey's doing, or at least just stay home and work with Willie as a horse trainer? Eliot loves horses, and he can tame the wildest of them just like Daniel did the lions in the Good Book. Horse training isn't a bad job.

Hell, if he'd gone and joined the army just because he wanted to be a hero, he didn't even have to leave home in the first place - Eliot has always been a hero to Lindsey. No need to go to war and come back a cold, grim stranger to become one.

Still, he'd gone, and now he's back, and Eliot's not the brother who'd left. He doesn't smile, doesn't laugh, he doesn't know how to have a good time anymore - He functions, but that's all. Eliot's _broken_. And Lindsey doesn't know how to fix him.

He looks it up, spending hours in the library, taking copied pages from medical journals home to devour, instead of trying to get ahead in his classes for fall semester. PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, formerly called battle fatigue, shell shock, dozens of different names, all adding up to the same thing: A broken brother whom Lindsey isn't equipped to fix. He ponders changing his major to psychology, but a dark _"I know what you're thinkin' so don't even"_ glower from Eliot changes his mind right back again. Pre-law it is.

Eliot's here, but he isn't, but he _is_, and Lindsey's never really thought that maybe one day he might not be.

Until now.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Remember that warning? It applies to this chapter. I'm serious. Dark.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Chapter Two**

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

He finds Aimee crying in the stable, hugging General MacArthur, a chestnut stallion belonging to some rich oil baron down in Texas. The horse snorts upon Lindsey's entrance, alerting Aimee to his presence.

"We broke up," she sobs into the horse's mane, which sorely tempts Lindsey to look heavenward.

"_Again? Why'm_ I_ always the one who has to deal with this?"_ He settles for a sigh instead and prepares calm down his brother's hysterical ex(again)-girlfriend.

"No," she insists tearfully, seeing his expression, "It's different this time. It's…It's like he was sayin' goodbye for good. Like he's gonna leave again."

Later, he thinks that he should have realized, he should have gone cold, should have felt _something_ after hearing that. But all he thinks now is that goddamn it, Eliot's gonna go off and do something stupid again, like sign up for a second tour on a rebound.

He manages to work Aimee down to a ladylike sniffle, enough that he doesn't feel like a cad for leaving a weeping female on her own (no matter that Aimee Martin can take care of herself just fine), and sets off for the woods on the outer edge of the Martins' property, to the place where he knows Eliot has gone.

It's a secret, secluded spot, a place just the two of them know. Not even Aimee, for all the years she's lived there, and all the time she's been Eliot's girlfriend, not even she knows about it. It's Lindsey and Eliot's place, Eliot and Lindsey's.

He finds him sitting on an old, rotting log, head bent down near his knees. His back's towards him, so Lindsey can't see his expression, but his shoulders are shaking and that's enough to get Lindsey moving again.

He sighs softly, hating seeing his brother like this, then walks up to the log to sit beside him. He makes sure that his leaf-crunching steps are loud enough that Eliot won't be startled (a startled Eliot is bad, _bad)_. He sits down carefully next to him, his shoulder almost touching Eliot's but not quite.

And that's when he sees.

The gun, Willie Martin's gun that's _supposed _to be inside the drawer of the hallway table back at the house. The gun, _that_ gun, is in his brother's trembling hand, its muzzle shoved deep into his mouth. His finger's on the trigger, and all Lindsey can do is stare for one heart-stopping moment, breath and scream both caught in his throat.

Until his brain catches up.

"Eliot," he says, voice shaking, "Eliot, what the hell're you doin'?" He reaches out, wanting to wrench the gun out of his brother's hand, out of his brother's _mouth_, but afraid he'll make him pull the trigger instead. "Eliot. Gimme the gun, Eliot. Please," he says desperately, _God, you can't _do_ this, not _this, _"Please,_ El, gimme the gun."

He puts his hand on Eliot's shoulder, at first lightly, then grips hard. "Eliot, give me the gun" he says sternly, ordering instead of pleading. His fingers dig hard into his brother's shuddering shoulder, "Gimme the gun."

The cold metal comes out of Eliot's mouth, trailing strands of saliva, but his finger's still on the trigger and it's still pointed in the vicinity of his throat, but that's good enough for Lindsey _(at least it's not in his mouth)_. He puts his hand over Eliot's and slowly, slowly, pulls it so that it's pointing away from the both of them. Then he uncocks it.

So far, so good.

Eliot's still sitting there, eyes clenched closed and shaking with dry, hiccupping sobs, still holding tightly onto the gun.

"Gimme the gun, Eliot," Lindsey says again.

And slowly, slowly, the white-tipped fingers unclench, allowing Lindsey to take the firearm.

Once the gun's in his possession, well, that's when Lindsey's very rational mind deems it safe enough to blow up at his twin.

"What the hell were you thinkin', huh?" he screams, standing over his brother, spittle flying, "You were gonna eat a bullet over breakin' up with Aimee? Huh? The fu-"

"It's called 'eatin' your gun,' moron," Eliot cuts in, voice dry and cracking, looking down at his now-empty hands. "Not 'eatin' a bullet'."

Lindsey's nostrils flare. "Oh, that's great. You're correcting me on my choice of words? Fine. You were gonna _kill_ yourself over a girl. That's _pathetic_, Eliot. What's wrong with you?"

"No," Eliot starts _(no, not _because_ of Aimee, broke up with her because of what _I've_ done, she's too good for me now, sinned, killed, killer, murderer)_, but is interrupted by Lindsey, now going into a scolding rant full steam.

"Yes, it _is_ pathetic, Eliot," he fumes, "You go to fight in a war halfway across the globe and you come home in one piece, only to shoot yourself in the head over a girl?" he says, even though he knows that it's not about Aimee, that he's skirting the issue here, just like they've all been doing since Eliot's return. "Seriously?"

He looks down at the gun in his shaking hand then back up at his brother, sitting on the log, looking smaller and more _alone_ than he's ever looked to Lindsey, and then back down at the gun again.

"You don't get to do that to me, Eliot," he says slowly, feeling his chin quivering and hearing his voice waver. A tear rolls down his cheek, quickly followed by another. The air's around them is too thick, too thin, and he can't get a decent breath in his lungs. _Eliot almost left. Eliot almost _left. _Eliot almost _killed_ himself. Almost…Almost _died.

He takes a breath that sounds more like a sob. "You don't get to do that! Not you. Everybody- Everybody leaves us, they always, they _always_ go. But you, _you_ don't get to leave me like that. Not- not like Dad," he says, reminding his brother of the easy way their father had taken out of a hard life. "Not ever. Not ever, Eliot!" he repeats, face crumbling, and raises the gun, thumb cocking it as he does so.

Red-rimmed eyes follow the gun up, horror replacing the despair when Eliot realizes exactly where the gun is going.

"No!" he shouts, and full-body tackles Lindsey back onto the ground, a move learned in their childhood years of playing football in the fields.

The gun goes off, creating a cacophony of startled wildlife sounds in its wake, while the brothers stare into each others' faces, panting in perfect sync.

"What the hell?" Eliot croaks, hand clamped so hard around Lindsey's wrist that it'll leave a bruise, a vivid reminder of that afternoon's events. "What the _hell_ didja think you were doin', Linny?" he screams into his face. "What the _hell?"_ he asks, voice breaking.

Lindsey swallows under the fierce intensity of Eliot's gaze. "How's it feel, Eliot? You were gonna do the same thing to me." _Almost, almost too late. _

Eliot blinks rapidly, breaths coming quicker, then abruptly scrambles off of Lindsey as if getting ready to launch off into a run, but all he does is fall clumsily on his hands and knees and retch into the grass.

Lindsey looks down at the gun again, and in one fluid, angry movement, takes it apart, tossing the pieces in opposite directions. Then he crawls over to his brother and rubs circles on his back until he's done vomiting.

Eliot collapses into his arms, his close-cropped, sweat-slicked hair brushing against Lindsey's tear-stained cheek, their legs tangling in one jeans-clothed knot. Lindsey pulls his brother in as close as he can and just holds on, as Eliot heaves dry, tearless, gasping sobs into his shoulder, fingers clenched tight into Lindsey's shirt, warping, rending the thin cotton. Lindsey can feel himself ripping along with the cloth, but he can't, he can't break because he has to fix Eliot, has to keep him from shattering. So he holds on tighter, squeezes harder, and tries not to cry (but the tears come anyway, rolling down his cheeks and dripping off of his chin and the end of his nose _[Tears enough for the both of us, _he thinks, clutching his brother tighter to his chest and pressing his lips against the top of Eliot's head]).

Gradually, the shuddering breaths even out, quiet down, and then they're breathing in sync again, like they're meant to.

"I don't feel like a goddamn hero," Eliot says, sounding broken.

"American government says you are," Lindsey replies softly, "That medal you got says you are."

"Don't feel like it," Eliot says again, just as quietly. _You weren't there. You didn't see what I did._

"I say you are," Lindsey says. _Whatever they made you do, you're still my brother and that means I'm proud of you._

Eliot doesn't say anything, so Lindsey takes that as his cue to add more. "Remember when we were kids, an' everyone used to tease me about my name? I never really had to defend myself, y'know? You always did it for me. I mean, anyone even looked at me crooked an' they had a bloody nose, no matter how big they were or how many of 'em you had to go through. I never truly appreciated that until I started college and everyone started lookin' at me funny all over again. I even had one guy ask me if I was a girl or if I was just gay. Y'know, 'cause of my name. And I knew, if you were there, you woulda whupped his ass so hard, and anyone else who laughed, too. I knew that for a fact. So I guess that makes you m' hero in my book. Just so you know."

Eliot's limp in his arms, unmoving, and Lindsey thinks that maybe he's fallen asleep, since it's not like he's slept all that much lately anyway, but after a minute, there's a weak chuckle, and Eliot says, "You _are_ a damn girl, Linny."

Lindsey scowls, but the small smile on his brother's face and the grateful look in his eyes when he opens them are good enough for him to keep his mouth shut. Almost. "Shuddup. B'sides, you owe me. I had to deal with your cryin' ex-girlfriend. She used my shirt as a tissue, man. On second thought," he says, feigning dawning realization, "so did you."

He gets a fist in his stomach for that, leaving him gasping as Eliot rolls himself out of his arms and onto his feet.

"Dick," Lindsey wheezes when he can speak. He wipes his face with his sleeve. It's already got snot from two people on it, so a third won't make too much of a difference.

"C'mon. Let's go home," Eliot says, holding out a hand. "They'll be lookin' for us."

Lindsey snorts in reply, but takes the shaking proffered hand anyway. Eliot hauls him up, clapping him on the shoulder when he's steady on his feet, then turns away to pick something up out of the grass.

Lindsey stiffens when he sees the gun, but all Eliot does is tuck it into the back of his jeans. He nods in the other direction. "Get the bullets. Willie's gonna want 'em back."

Lindsey has to trample the long grass down in quite a large area before he can find the magazine.

"Shouldna thrown it so hard," Eliot snickers, trying too hard to sound like his old self. Lindsey glares at him, but can't find it in himself to care too much. Eliot's smiling again, just a little bit_ (shaky, too shaky to be real),_ and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can fix his brother after all.

Eliot doesn't say a word when Lindsey pockets the bullets instead of handing them over to him. He does, however, throw an arm over Lindsey's shoulder and cup the back of his neck with a warm hand as they make their way through the trees, starting the long walk home.

"Linny," he says in a low voice, "I- I know I've kicked ass for you before, I mean, it's my _job _ta look after you, but I ain't never saved your life. An' I ain't _never_ thought you'd save mine first. So…" he clears his throat, "y'know."

Lindsey stares into his brother's face, speechless. "You're my brother," he finally says, "Of course I did. Woulda killed me if I didn't try, at least."

A dark cloud passes over Eliot's expression. "Don't you ever try ta kill yourself again, Linny," he scolds. "I mean it."

Lindsey scowls, immediately irritated beyond measure by his brother's twelve-_whole_-minutes-older attitude. "Ain't that what _I'm_ supposed to say, ya idiot? _You_ don't ever try ta kill yourself again, Eliot."

Eliot snorts. "I ain't gonna."

Lindsey rolls his eyes. "Says the guy who had a friggin' _gun_ in his mouth."

Eliot glares. "I _said_, I ain't gonna," he says. "You can't either." He catches Lindsey's eyes and jabs a finger at his nose. "You can't, not ever."

Lindsey nods. "You either. Not ever."

"Okay," says Eliot, nodding.

"Okay," Lindsey repeats.

"Now we've got that settled," Eliot says after a minute, "you hafta tell me what you did to that guy who called you gay."

"Huh?" asks Lindsey, bewildered by the complete turnaround in his brother's mood.

"The guy from your school. You did get him back for that, didn't you? 'Cause I swear, if you didn't…"

"Oh," Lindsey chuckles, "him. I uh, he got caught for cheatin'. Turns out, it was his last chance, and he got kicked out completely."

Eliot snorts softly. "That's great. So, did he really cheat?"

Lindsey grins. "Hell no! Everyone knew that he was a 'serious student' after he got caught the last time, but all it took was one sample of his handwriting and a switcheroo in the stack of tests. You wouldn't believe how easy it was."

"You didn't!" guffaws Eliot.

"Oh, I did," Lindsey says, extremely satisfied with himself.

Eliot thumps him on the back (then lets his hand rest on Linny's shoulder. Just because.) "I always say you're smart enough for the two of us, Linny."

"You're not stupid, El," Lindsey says, looking up at him with eyes barely visible through the long, tangled mess of bangs. His fist tightens its grip on the hem of Eliot's shirt. "You just act it. People don't _have_ to think you're dumb, y'know."

Eliot shrugs. "That's kinda the whole point of it, Linny." He sighs heavily. "That _was_ dumb, though. Wasn't it?"

Lindsey snorts loudly and rudely. "Yeah. Extremely. Dumbest thing you ever done, and that's sayin' something."

Eliot makes a face at him. "Don't hafta rub it in."

Lindsey sniffs haughtily into the air. "I'm sure there's something very wrong with you."

"There's something wrong with you," Eliot retorts. "If I recall correctly, you did somethin' pretty stupid, too."

"I was makin' a point," Lindsey explains. "I wasn't actually gonna do it."

Eliot's only response is to stare at him, eyebrow raised. _I call bullshit._

"Okay," Lindsey admits slowly with a sigh, "I guess, if you'd done it, then I mighta, too. But only 'cause I woulda been the one to find you."

Eliot flinches at the not-so-silent reproach.

"I'm sorry," he says shakily after a minute.

Lindsey shrugs uncomfortably. "You did want me to find you, didn't you?" he asks softly, "That's why you came here."

Eliot gapes at him, unsure of what to say, not knowing the answer to his brother's question himself.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

AN: What? I warned you. Don't tell me you didn't see that one coming.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Okay, cue up the hurt/comfort! There's a bunch of that in this chapter, more comfort than hurt, though, because we just had a bunch of the latter in chapter two.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Chapter Three**

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"El?" Lindsey asks, forehead wrinkling worriedly.

"Linds," Eliot starts, looking first at his brother, then away, ashamed. He can feel the trembling start up again, spreading out from his very center. "I'm- I messed up. I- m'head, it's all messed up, an' I…" he trails off, looking into the distance, seeing…seeing not the paddocks of the Martins' training fields, but instead, arid desert sands and exploding buildings, exploding cars, exploding _people_, body parts flying, his unit shouting, dying, blood, fire_._

Lindsey frowns at Eliot, the sudden vacancy in his twin's eyes and the way he's beginning to hyperventilate worrying him. "El. El," he repeats to wake him up. He grabs the sides of Eliot's head and says his name again. "Earth to Eliot."

Slowly, the empty blue eyes refocus and settle on his face, blinking rapidly. "Hey. It's okay, Eliot. It's okay. I gotcha." Eliot blinks at him, breath hitching. "I gotcha."

Lindsey heaves a sigh and bites his lip. "If you- you ever feel like that again, you just tell me, okay?" He can feel the tears start up again. "I- I meant it, y'know? It's just you an' me, an' I don't know what I'd do without you, an' I don't _ever_ wanna find out. You're not allowed to die like this. So just, just _tell_ me, okay? If you're hurtin', you tell me what's goin' on. An' I'll find a way ta fix it. We'll figure it out. But you need to talk to me. You can't push me away. I _won't_ be pushed away. You gotta talk to me."

Eliot gives him a long look, all his usual defenses down, baring everything, but unable to put it into words. "Yeah," he says instead. He exhales forcefully, shakes it off. "Yeah, I will."

Lindsey sniffles. "Okay. Okay." His lip wobbles again, despite all his efforts to stop it. His eyes begin to fill, and...

Eliot stares at his face, then heaves an immense, exaggerated sigh, and looks away pointedly, hands shoved into his pockets, to give Lindsey time and space to recover.

Lindsey turns to wipe his face in his arm and snuffles as quietly as he can, but only succeeds in smearing snot all over his cheek.

After a _long_, wet-sounding minute, Eliot mutters, "Oh, for cryin' out loud," and hooks his arm around Lindsey's neck, roughly hauling him close and tucking his twin's head safely under his chin. "Come 'ere, ya big baby. Stop yer cryin', Linny. Stop _cryin'._ I ain't plannin' on dyin' anytime soon, alright? I'm done with that. Promise."

Somewhere in the back of Lindsey's mind is a voice that's saying that it should be _him_ comforting his brother and not the other way around, but the little brother in him (by twelve _whole_ minutes) wants leans into the embrace and _let_ his brother let him blubber into his shoulder. It's the natural thing to do, and besides, it's what Eliot needs, too (or so he retorts back to the annoying little voice in his head), so he tangles one hand in his brother's shirt and throws his free arm around his neck.

They stand there like that for a while, until Lindsey moves away, a little embarrassed at his second bout of tears in ten minutes. "Hey, so we good?" he asks after a quiet throat-clearing cough to cover it up.

Eliot runs a hand through his crew cut, nods. "Yeah."

"You good?"

Eliot looks down, his throat working as he thinks of an answer to give his brother. Anything other than the truth would just set him off again. But then, so would the whole truth. "Yeah." He sighs. "Yeah. I will be."

"I could," Lindsey starts at the admission, worry kicking up another notch, "I could take a year offa school, just 'til-"

"No," Eliot says firmly, starting their walk back to the house. "No, you go on back to school come September, Linny. You got that scholarship ta think about. Full ride, college boy." He grins _(stiff, too stiff)_ and musses Lindsey's hair up a bit.

Lindsey scowls and tries to flatten his hair back down. "I can get it put on ice for a year. It's not a big deal."

Eliot shakes his head, puts his hands back in his pockets. "Lindsey, you listen to me. I'll be just fine." _He will. He will._ "You get that law degree an' get rich an' famous. An' maybe sometime you'll get a call to bail me outta jail, huh?"

"That ain't funny, El." But the look on his face is. So very stern and solemn. "Seriously…"

Eliot sighs again. "I mean it. I'll be alright. Go back to school." He tosses a look at his brother, urging him to _get_ it.

Lindsey flounders. "Wh-what about you? What are you gonna do?"

Eliot shrugs. "I'll…I'll stay here. Until I can figure out what I'm gonna do with my life. I'll think of somethin'."

Lindsey hates hearing that lack of sureness in his brother's voice. Eliot always knows what to do, and it's frightening when he doesn't. "You _sure_ you don't want me to stick around?"

"Yes, I'm sure, _Mama. _Don't need you ta hold my hand." He's starting to growl, which is a tad more like himself. Lindsey's glad of that, but he's not too sure if agreeing to leave his brother here after summer vacation ends would be smart.

He really_ could_ take a semester or a year off of school. His advisers would understand. Extenuating circumstances and all that. "I could- "

"No, Linds. All I need is some more time. I'll be alright." Eliot sighs and looks towards the stables, where Aimee's watching the two of them make their way back to the farmhouse. "Hey, you go on ahead. I got a pissed off girlfriend I gotta go make up with."

Lindsey holds his hand out. "Gun." He wriggles his fingers. "Give it here."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Ain't got no bullets."

Blue eyes turn flinty. "Humor me."

Eliot sighs. "Fine. Here," he says, and puts the gun in his brother's waiting hand, making sure to keep it out of Aimee's line of sight. "Don't get caught puttin' it back, y'hear?"

"I ain't an idiot, El." _Unlike _some_ people. _

"No, you ain't," Eliot says, giving his brother a rare proud smile. "You're the smartest guy in the universe, and that is a goddamn fact. The world just don't know it yet, is all."

And damn, if Lindsey doesn't flush with pride like the little girl he is.

"Go make out with your girlfriend," he says, "Go on, git."

"I said I gotta go 'make up' with her, not 'make out,'" Eliot grumbles over his shoulder as he hops the paddock fence.

"Like you ain't gonna do both," Lindsey replies.

"I heard that," Aimme shouts from the stable door, hands on her hips.

Lindsey smirks. "Eliot an' Aimee, sittin' in a tree," he sing-songs, walking backwards towards the Martins' house.

"How old are you, ya idiot?" growls Eliot.

"Same age as you, _Romeo."_ And then he throws in some kissy noises to top off the teasing before running off, cackling.

They're perfect for each other, really. The way they look at each other, the way they touch each other, the way they fit just right…The way they holler at Lindsey in sync.

"Go _away_, Lindsey!"

When he gets to a safe enough distance to turn around and look, they're not kissing, like he'd thought they would be by now. They're standing close together, but they're just…talking. Eliot's head is bent down, and she's got her hands on his forearms, as if ready to hold him together if he needs holding, but ready to let go if he needs the space. Their foreheads are close to touching, and Lindsey can tell from their body language that what they're talking about is less like the dreams of high school sweethearts, and more like a serious discussion between the adults they've become in the past year.

Lindsey sighs. Not for the first time, he feels left out. It's not like he hasn't grown, too, but he feels as if his brother's gotten to be more of a man now (or maybe he's always been) than he is, and that he and Aimee have something that Lindsey's never going to have with anyone else.

He holds the gun in his hands and growls. He wishes he could chuck the gun away altogether, but that might be more suspicious than anything, so he sneaks into the house and puts the loathed firearm back where it belongs.

As he slides the drawer closed, he hears a step behind him.

"Yer brother alright?"

Lindsey looks up into Willie Martin's concerned eyes. "Yeah. Sure."

Willie's gaze flickers to Lindsey's hand, still on the hallway table after putting the gun back. There's nothing kept in that drawer but the gun and ammo. "The first step to getting better is to admit you got a problem to begin with," he says quietly.

"Isn't that what they say about addiction?"

Eliot's not addicted to anything, except maybe adrenaline and stupidity. Lindsey would know if his brother was doing drugs, and the only substance problem he has is a tendency to drink a tad too much some nights.

"And just about everything else," Willie says. "Don't you worry about Eliot none, Lindsey. He's a fighter, if ever I've seen one."

Lindsey bites his lip. "I gotta worry, Willie. He's my brother."

"Then you worry from a distance and let him have his space. But make sure you're there when he does need you. He'll thank you more for that." Willie isn't a man who says much, but when he does, he means what he says.

Lindsey nods. "Yeah."

He's about to add more, ask Willie a question, but the sound of footsteps on the porch makes him stop.

Eliot and Aimee walk in, arms twined tight around each other. Eliot's eyes flicker from Lindsey to Willie, then to the hall table, then back to Lindsey again, accusing. _You idiot!_

Lindsey scowls back. _Not my fault, ya jerk!_

The silent argument would have gone on longer, but Willie cuts in. "Aimee, darlin', why don't you go help your mama with dinner, huh?"

Aimee's gaze goes around to the men around her, a little confused, but knowing that _something_ is going on. "Okay, Daddy," she says reluctantly and turns around to give Eliot a gentle kiss on the side of his jaw. He tenderly tucks a wisp of her honey-gold hair behind her ear and tilts his head towards the kitchen. She sighs, but goes.

"You too, Linds," Eliot says.

"What? No!" Lindsey replies indignantly. "B'sides, you said to stay the hell outta the kitchen if I know what's good for me."

"Linny."

"Lindsey, I'd like to talk to your brother alone, if that's alright with you." Willie Martin, always soft-spoken, always reasonable.

"Look," Lindsey says, "If this is about the gun, it's my fault. I stole it because I wanted Eliot to teach me how to shoot properly. That's all. You don't have to tell Uncle Randy when he gets back."

Eliot narrows his eyes at his brother. _What the hell're you doin'?Lyin' ta _Willie?

Willie doesn't blink at the bold-faced lie. "Got a call from your uncle today," he says instead, "He's still on the road, but says he should be home by tonight."

Lindsey clenches his jaw. "Don't tell him."

"Linny," Eliot sighs, "You don't have to cover up for me, alright? Just…go."

Willie looks between the twins, boys who have grown up into fine young men under his roof, both of whom he has come to love like his own.

"Tell him what?" he finally replies. "You're both grown men. Ain't none of my business what you do with your lives. But I want you to remember how what you do with those lives God gave you are gonna affect the rest of us." He holds both the boys' gazes.

Eliot swallows hard and nods. "Yes sir," he says seriously. "I will."

Willie looks at the younger boy, who tightens his lips, his mind going like a whirlwind behind the clear blue eyes. "Yes sir."

Willie nods. "Alright. That's good. Now, Lindsey, there really is something I want to talk to your brother about. If you'll excuse us?"

Ever after all these years, he still can't quite decipher the looks that pass between the boys, but the argument or discussion, whatever it is, ends with Lindsey huffing, "I guess I'll go study…or _somethin',"_ and stomping out the door to the small cabin next to the main house that Willie rents out to the boys' uncle.

"Come sit out on the porch with me, Eliot," the horse trainer says.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


	4. Chapter 4

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Chapter Four**

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Lindsey isn't sure what Willie said to Eliot that afternoon, but in the days following it, Eliot is calmer, quieter, talking less than ever before. He begins to spend more time outside with the horses than indoors, and comes in at odd hours of the night, smelling of the animals and fresh hay. He lies in his bed in the dark, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, thinking.

Things between them have changed, but not for the worse. Eliot only grunts in greeting instead of lashing out when Lindsey stays up until Eliot comes back in at night, no matter how late the hour is ("I just wanna finish this chapter, El."). He lets Lindsey follow him around without saying a word (just like when they were kids) whenever the younger twin feels the sudden paranoid urge to be close to his brother.

But twin or not, there are some things at which even Eliot draws the line.

Lindsey never does figure out how Eliot discovered what he'd done, but when he did, Eliot had blown up, called the school, _pretending to be Lindsey,_ and re-registered him in all the classes for fall that the younger twin had dropped when he'd called his adviser earlier to let her know that he needed to take a semester off from school in order to care for his convalescent war veteran brother.

"I don't want you giving up your future for me, Linds," was all he'd said in explanation.

Lindsey had scowled, his plans to watch over his brother thwarted. "It's not called 'giving up' if my goals have changed, El."

All Eliot had done at that was stare at him long and hard, until it felt like worms were crawling up and around inside of him and he just had to blink and _squirm _(and lose the staring contest).

It's one night a couple of weeks later, about a month after _the incident,_ when Eliot finally opens up.

"Willie offered me a job in the stables as long as I want one," he says into the darkness, knowing that Lindsey never falls completely asleep until he does first. "Assistant trainer. He'll pay me the going rate."

Lindsey props himself up on his elbows to see his twin better. "That's great!"

Eliot doesn't reply, merely stares up at the ceiling.

"El?"

"I'm not gonna take it."

Lindsey sits up all the way. "What?" he exclaims, torn between confusion and outrage. "Why the hell not?"

Eliot keeps his eyes staring straight up. "Gonna go back to the war. Workin' with horses is great, and I love it," he pulls his gaze away from the ceiling to look at his brother, "love them, but I don't wanna do that the rest of my life. It ain't what I was made to do."

He can see Lindsey frowning, turning his words over in his mind. Always thinking, his brother. Gonna make a good lawyer someday. A small smile itches to turn the corner of his mouth up.

"What're you talkin' about?"

He sighs, finally sitting up himself to mirror Lindsey. "Fightin'. That's what I'm good at."

Lindsey swings his legs over the side of his bed and leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You're good at a lotta things, El. You don't hafta go back."

Eliot examines his hands carefully. _Don't look at his face. Don't look at his eyes. Don't let him plead, beg, wheedle you into agreeing with what he wants. Don't look…aw, crap. _

He turns away and rubs his face. He's tired. He hasn't slept well in…over a year, and it's showing. "You're not listening to me, Linny. I _want_ to. It's…I can't explain it. I just have to. That's my calling."

"But…" Lindsey trails off, barely recognizing this stranger with his face. "You just got home!"

Eliot wants his brother to understand, but knows he won't, can't. Everyone knows that Lindsey's calling is in books, learning, studying, information. Eliot's has always been in his fists. That has always been abundantly clear to anyone who knows them. Lindsey, for all the years they've lived side by side, from the womb to now, Lindsey doesn't understand why Eliot needs this so much. The violence, the aggression - He doesn't understand that there's meaning and order to it when Eliot's the one in control.

But these last few months, he's been off-balance because somewhere along the line, amid all the chaos, all the blood and bullets, he'd lost his control, found something in him that he had never encountered before, and it had scared him. He, Eliot McDonald, who had once at the tender age of five faced three teenaged bullies with nothing more than his fists and his brother at his back (and a pile of rocks), he was scared of something _in_ him. He'd done what was expected of him, but he had felt something flicker, rise in his chest, in his very soul, and it had felt foreign and familiar at the same time.

It had thrown him off-kilter, but he had been able to hide it, or so he had thought. He'd hidden it, until those feelings, that confusion, the dread, the fear, all of it had finally boiled over, and…God. If Lindsey hadn't found him that day…

Lindsey, his only brother, his only constant - he'd been so prepared to leave him, but God, he hadn't realized how much he needs him, how much they need each other - Lindsey's staring at him, waiting, worried, but _strong_.

Little brother (no matter that they're only less than a quarter of an hour apart), his little brother's grown up while Eliot's been away, and he hadn't even noticed until that day. He'd seen Eliot floundering, drowning, and had pulled him back up, grip stronger than he remembered it being, and he'd held on, clung on with all he had, a literal anchor. _Never gonna let you go_, he'd read in the tight embrace that day, _not ever. You're not alone._

Lindsey watches him, silent, waiting for him to get his thoughts straight again.

Eliot gulps, head bent down, and picks at a tiny hole in the sheets. "Linny, I- Thanks. For what you did for me that day. I hadn't really dealt with it all, y'know, and I haven't yet, but I'm starting to."

Lindsey sighs in his turn. "That's just it. You're dealing, but that's no call to go back there and get _broken_ again to prove how tough you are. Everyone and their mother knows you're tough."

Eliot huffs. "That ain't why. And I _ain't_ broken." He isn't. He's just…confused. 'S all. He's fine. Mostly. He just needs to face his fears. That's all. Face it and overcome it. That's the way to get stronger.

Lindsey narrows his eyes at him. "Are too."

"Linny," Eliot starts and punches his pillow in frustration, "I- I just need to, okay? I can't explain it. When I was out there, the fighting part, that felt good, that felt right. Fighting for something, for someone. That felt right. The rest? Not so much, but that part was _right._ And I wanna do the right thing. I wanna do the right thing," he repeats softly.

Lindsey frowns, struggling to understand. Concepts that he cannot comprehend are rare with him, and he hates not being able to see why his brother needs to go _away_ to do this. "Couldn't you do that here? I mean, you've had your fair share of war already. You could do community work, something with kids - you like kids. Or the homeless, or- "

"Linny- "

"Stop sayin' my name like_ I'm_ the one bein' unreasonable," Lindsey exclaims. "You're…you're crazy. Know what? I'm taking that break from school after all to look after your deranged ass. And you can't stop me." He says it, but he knows in his gut that it's hopeless. Eliot's mind is set and there's no budging him.

"Linny. I'm fine. I'm no crazier than I was when I left, an' I _don't_ need a babysitter. You gotta let go sometime."

It's a hit under the belt, but it needs to be said. Because they're twins, but they're not _conjoined,_ for Pete's sake (and don't tell Linny that he even knows that word). They each need to make their own way in the world, and if Lindsey doesn't let go, then neither of them will be able to do what they're meant to. Lindsey's got his own set of dreams and goals, and they have absolutely nothing to do with Eliot's. They can't keep dragging each other down. _He_ can't drag Lindsey down with his issues, and his _shit._

Lindsey can feel that traitorous bottom lip wavering again, so he bites down on it to stop it, drawing blood. "You're different, El." It's a reproach, but not really, a realization, maybe, or perhaps only the blunt statement of a fact.

Eliot swallows, and it hurts to meet his eyes because the look in them is so _old. _"So're you. We both are. An' we're gonna keep on changin', so we might as well accept it and move on from the fact that we ain't always gonna be doin' exactly the same thing, just 'cause we're twins."

The expression on Lindsey's face turns pensive. He purses his lips. "You know, I never thought that. We never really did do the whole 'in sync' thing that much." He holds up his hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know, you're gonna say my name again, like it actually does something. You're really gonna go for another round?"

Eliot nods, not knowing where this is going. "Yeah. I'm _good_ at it. I really am." He's surprised by how much he wants Lindsey to know this. That he's good at something, like Lindsey's good at learning and thinking and other smart people stuff. "I'm _good_ at fighting. Real good."

And Lindsey gets it. Finally. He can see it in his face, his posture, his eyes. He gets it, but he doesn't like it.

Lindsey sighs and scrubs his hand through the tangled, sleep-tousled, untamed curls they'd both inherited from their mama. "Yeah, I know. _I know._ I guess…I just don't want you to die, that's all. It's dangerous. War is dangerous."

Eliot tilts his head. "You knew that the first time an' you let me go." Well, "let" isn't the right word because he would have gone anyway, but Linny had been fine with it, for the most part. Sent him off with a stiff grin and a wave (and suspiciously shiny and reddened eyes).

Lindsey picks at his fingernails, and inserts one into his mouth to chew on it (a habit of his that he knows Eliot detests) before he answers. "I know it better now." There's a long pause. "Okay."

"Okay? I got yer permission?" It comes out sarcastic, but that's not exactly how he means it. He wants to know if Lindsey's really going to be alright with his decision.

Lindsey shifts uncomfortably and pulls his bare feet up onto the bed, chin resting on his knees. "Shuddup. Yeah. I ain't _okay_ with it, but if it's what you feel like you gotta do, then you should do it. I ain't gonna stop you."

Eliot sighs, tension he hadn't been aware of melting away in relief. "Thank you."

The corner of Lindsey's mouth twitches. "That don't mean I'm gonna help you with Aimee when she breaks up with you _again_, though."

Aimee. She's gonna be so pissed. Eliot groans, and falls back onto his bed. "Aw, come on, Linny," he pleads, "Just a little?"

Lindsey snickers. "No."

Eliot rolls over onto his stomach and rests his cheek on his pillow. He feels sleep closing in, beckoning…Maybe he'll be able to rest tonight. Yeah. Maybe. "Come on. Wingman."

Lindsey gets back under his covers and pulls them up to his chin. "No. I ain't gettin' in between you and her, man," he chuckles.

"I ain't askin' for that. Just talk her down like you always do, that's all I'm askin'. That's what you're good at." Lindsey can't leave him hanging like this.

Aimee…she may be tiny, but you know what they say about redheads and tempers? Blondes are scarier. 'Course, that's what he loves about her, and he does love her, very much. He's been thinking about a ring, not a promise ring, but a real one…But he needs the money to buy it first, needs money so that he can support her, and God willing, their family. And a job in the military's probably the only thing that Eliot's good enough at that'll get him honest money, enough of it, anyway, so that he's not depending on Willie. Eliot's _good_ at fighting.

"Nope."

"You suck."

"Right back atcha, Corporal McDonald." Lindsey's laugh is muffled by his pillow, but it's a real, happy laugh. Eliot's missed that. He's been so caught up in his own crap that he hasn't really thought about how Lindsey has to be feeling about all this.

"Linny?"

"Mm?"

Eliot licks his lips, flips over onto his back with a sigh, restless, and goes back to staring at the ceiling again. It's easier than looking at his twin, even though there isn't much to see in the moonlight filtering in through the curtains of their darkened bedroom. "Ain't gonna die on ya."

Lindsey's silent for a few moments before he replies. "You don't know that."

"Gonna fight twice as hard as those other guys," Eliot says, turning on his side, so he can at least see his brother's profile. "Got twice as much on the line as them."

He remembers what Lindsey had said that day, that he didn't want to find out what life would be like without Eliot. The knot in his stomach tightens with a cold lurch when he remembers the gun pressed up against Lindsey's temple. He had known, in that moment, that Lindsey had meant every single word, and…Eliot isn't going to die. Lindsey isn't going to die. Two lives in one. That's the way it's always been. They're not joined at the hip, but..._But._

Lindsey lets out a deep breath from the other bed. He turns his head and looks over, the dim light hitting his eyes just right for Eliot to see tears shining in them…_again_. Crybaby. (And Eliot isn't tearing up right along with him, he's not. It's just dust.) "Thanks, El."

"No, thank _you._ I mean it, Linds. If you hadn't come just then, if you hadn't...hadn't _saved_ me, I- I woulda, y'know?" Eliot shudders at how _close_ he'd come to ending it all.

"I know." It sounds strangled, as if Lindsey's remembering, too. "I know, El."

Eliot pulls his knees up to his chest, and feels a tickling sensation roll down the bridge of his nose. "I'm messed up, Linny," he confesses in a whisper after a moment, grateful for the dark. "I'm so f- I'm so messed up I- "

"I'm gonna help you."

Determination's what gotten Lindsey this far (surviving their dirt-poor childhood, surviving having a girl's name, getting grades good enough to attract schools willing to pay for _everything)_, and it's clear that mending Eliot is his next project. When Lindsey sets his mind on something, he gets it done. And that feels…good.

"Yeah."

"I mean it."

"I know. And you are." He is helping, he really is. Eliot's not much of a talker, but Lindsey, he's always been a good listener, easy for him to talk to, the _only_ person Eliot can talk to about anything and everything.

Eliot's too busy thinking to notice the rustling of sheets from the next bed over. Something cold brushes his leg and he jumps a mile. "What're you doin'?"

Lindsey plops his pillow down next to his. In _his_ bed. "Just feel like it, 's all. Scoot."

Eliot scoots, but only out of instinct. Then he shoves back to get back the space he'd lost. "Seriously, what are you doing?"

Lindsey squirms and turns, getting settled in, and messing up the covers while he's at it. "You're gonna have a nightmare anyway. Just thought I'd stop it before it begins."

Eliot scowls. "How? By keepin' me awake all night with your cold feet?"

They are cold. Freezing. Always have been, in the summer, in the winter, all year round. And Eliot is in a position to know this very well, having had to share a bed with his bedcover-hogging twin every damn night of their lives until they'd moved in with Uncle Randy six years ago after Mama had died.

Eliot can almost see the indignant pout on Lindsey's face. "They ain't cold."

"Yeah, because now _my_ feet are cold," he grumbles, but only to keep face, and not because he's actually uncomfortable.

Lindsey snorts a breath out through his nose in frustration. "Shut up and go to sleep, El."

"I can't," Eliot retorts, "Your elbow's in my ribs."

"Is not."

"Is too. Quit shovin'!"

Lindsey groans and shifts next to him. "Is not, and I ain't. Hey! Get offa me! Lemme go! What are you doin'?" he exclaims, arms flailing, and his voice muffled from his face being smashed up against Eliot's side and held in place by a well-muscled arm.

"Smell armpit, Linny!" Eliot snickers.

Lindsey struggles out of his grip, bitch-face firmly in place. "Gross! You're disgusting. I'm trying to help, El!"

"Then get the hell outta my bed!"

With a low growl, Lindsey flings himself at him, and from that moment, it's an all-out wrestling match, ending with Lindsey falling out of the bed with an immense thump and a loud cry.

"Boys, what in tarnation 're you doin' this time of night?"

Uncle Randy. Randall Spencer, their mother's uncle, who had taken them in and never once regretted it, although, as the baffled old bachelor put it, he "don't know nothin' 'bout raisin' two boys to save m'life, but at least the Lord had the good sense not to send an ol' codger like me two _girls."_

"Sorry, Uncle Randy," they say, stifling giggles.

The old man runs a work-hardened hand through his hair, making it stand up. "Yeah, yeah, get to sleep, the both of you. You got chores an' church in the mornin'."

"'Night, Uncle Randy," the boys say, Lindsey elbowing his way back into Eliot's bed instead of his own.

Uncle Randy doesn't comment on that, having noticed the abrupt change in the boys' behavior a while back when he had come home after a week-long trip to deliver a racehorse a few states over.

"'Night, Lindsey, Eliot," he says, and shuffles back to his room on the other side of the hallway.

"_Get outta my bed,"_ hisses Eliot with a shove.

"I'm sorry. I can't hear you. I'm asleep," Lindsey replies and begins sawing logs _(fake, FAKE)_ like there's no tomorrow.

Eliot grumbles and groans and punches his pillow, but in the end, he settles down on his side of _his_ bed and within minutes, slips into the first restful night's sleep he has had in a long time.

Lindsey turns over slowly and smiles at the sight of his peacefully slumbering brother. _"'Night, Eliot."_

Eliot snuffles in his sleep and reaches out a hand to latch onto Lindsey's shirt.

Lindsey smirks.

_Blackmail!_

However, the next morning, he has no chance to snicker over his brother's rare show of intimacy, as they both wake up in a tangle of limbs that is only unknotted when their bickering and snarling and pulling sends them rolling over the side of the bed with a thud loud enough to send Uncle Randy down the hall to tell them that it's time they got their lazy, lily-white asses up an' outta bed anyhow or they'll be late for church.

"Be right there, Uncle Randy," they chorus in unison.

"_Why the good Lord sent me twins,"_ they hear the old man mutter outside their door. _"As if one weren't enough..." _They steal a look at each other, and burst out laughing.

Lindsey smiles at his brother. They're okay. Yeah, Eliot's okay, they're okay.

"I gotta bruise on my ass the size of Texas," he grumbles instead, rubbing his hip.

"Mine's the size of Alaska. That's bigger," Eliot retorts, and shows it to him.

"Dude, I did _not_ need to see your lily-white ass," Lindsey says, shielding his eyes and grimacing dramatically before turning away to look for his church-going clothes.

"You're just jealous 'cause mine's better," Eliot cackles and tosses him one of his boots.

It bounces off of Lindsey's chest painfully, _oof,_ and lands on his foot. "Ow!" he says, rubbing his chest and hopping on one leg. "I ain't jealous. I got the exact same goods, _'_cept_ I_ don't got a scar on mine," he says smugly.

"Chicks dig scars," says Eliot, affronted.

Lindsey snorts. "Do not. 'Specially not _chicken pox_ scars."

"Do too."

"Not."

"Too."

"_Boys! Breakfast!"_

"Not."

"Too."

"Not. Ow! Uncle Randy! Eliot hit me!"

"Tattletale."

"_Boys!"_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**Epilogue**

This time next year, Eliot will be part of an elite Special Ops team. He'll prepare for a top secret mission in an undisclosed location by praying to God for His protection and guidance (and for his brother into the bargain because he never, _ever_ forgets to pray for Lindsey). Sgt. Eliot McDonald (code name Wolf) will be the only one on the team who makes it out of that hellhole alive.

This time next year, Lindsey will be working in the mailroom of Wolfram and Hart, handpicked by Holland Manners from UC Hastings' pre-law class of '96. He'll smile at a lewd joke one of the other employees, a young man named Bradley Scott, tells, all the while never pausing in his own work.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

* * *

AN: And so it begins...

References that you might or might not have caught and stuff I made up:

Eliot says he had an uncle named Randy. I made up the part where he's their mother's uncle, and added "Spencer" as his last name. I also had him working for the Martins. I mentioned him before in "The Sky's Gonna Open." Something about how he did his best and smoked like a chimney.

I put Eliot in Somalia because the Gulf War ended in 1991, which would have made Eliot 17, too young to enlist (unless he lied about his age *gaspness*), and there were American troops in Somalia in 1992. As for his rank, umm, I wiki-ed it, as I have no actual knowledge of the military and how it works.

Eliot said on the show that as a young man, he had "God in his heart and a flag on his shoulder" - At the beginning of this story, he'd sort of lost that, but I wanted to show that at the end, he had healed enough to have faith again, in both God and his country. Pity he loses that in a few years...

Lindsey was approached by Holland as a sophomore at Hastings, as mentioned on _Angel_. There is something wrong with this statement, as UC Hastings is a law school only and doesn't have an undergrad campus (yes, I did my research. Also, Hastings is only #44 on the list of top-ranked law schools. That irks me because it suggests that Lindsey wasn't smart enough to get into Stanford or Berkeley, which are both ranked higher and are California schools, just like Hastings). Anyway, I'll let it go and pretend Lindsey went to Hastings for both undergrad and law school. Lindsey should have finished his undergrad in 1996. That means he should have gotten his law degree in 1999, unless he was a fast worker and pushed the dates up by a year or so, which I'm pretty sure is what happened because he's a frickin' workaholic. So let's say he made Junior Associate in or around 1998-1999.

Bradley Scott was the name of the guy Lindsey's "evil" hand used to belong to. According to the show, he used to work in the mailroom at WR&H with him. I was going to mention Lilah in this fic, but _Angel_ says she finished her law degree and was hired by WR&H in 1994, since she is older than Lindsey. Actually, this is better, since that means it took Lindsey less time to climb the ladder than her. Ooh, that must have irked her so bad!

Self-reference: Lindsey's the one who cries a lot, and Eliot doesn't cry. As much. But PTSD is a pretty friggin' good reason, and so is watching someone you love go through that. And here, Lindsey's the one getting into bed (minds out of the gutter, thank you very much) with Eliot. In the de-aged Eliot parts of the "Sky's Gonna Open" verse, their situations are reversed. Just pointing it out, in case you were wondering why I did what I did with the characters...


End file.
